Promises Unmet
by Val-Creative
Summary: Lyra injures herself badly by falling out of a tree. (Pre-series. TV-verse.)


**.**

**.**

There's no use delaying the inevitable.

He must return to Jordan College.

Asriel plans on a long, arduous trek into more uncharted territories of northern wildlands, and needs to be provided with supplies as well as a minimal amount of funds. He speaks privately with the Master while it's still early in the morning, learning that the Master must seek an audience with the more privileged members of this college before finalizing a decision.

It's agreeable enough. Perhaps two or three days of waiting, but he's not an impatient man. Asriel tips a little bit of his hidden, liquor-sloshing flask into his coffee, scrutinizing the Master's raven daemon as she pecks benevolently at velvety, dark robes.

Stelmaria blinks her lovely, tawny eyes, growling down a laugh as Asriel places a finger to his lips in a 'shh' motion.

But, of course, there's always an unforeseen snag in negotiations. Before leaving the Master's Lodging, the Master of Jordan College requests Asriel visit Lyra the reminder of his time in Oxford. _She has been most eager to see you, Lord Asriel. Be kind._

Kindness has ravaged his existence in this world, Asriel thinks. Kindness stripped away his wealth and prestige, and the respect from powerful men who Asriel believed he was above. Kindness may have spared his daughter, but not their relationship. Kindness is why he maintains his distance—for if anyone in the Church discovered the _truth_, or if Lyra had, they would both be killed.

He strolls along the aged, marble walkway, passing a colorful oak tree. His daemon elegantly stretches herself, going on ahead.

There's not enough whiskey in Asriel to miss the noise of little feet leaping high, high up. His ten-year-old scrambles over the dirty roof-tiles, trying to hush Pantalaimon and following her "_uncle_" like a shadow. A pesky, but reassuringly familiar shadow.

Asriel slows his pace deliberately, gazing at nothing in particular.

"If there is someone roaming about on Shelton Building's roof…" he announces hoarsely, loudly enough to be heard but not considered yelling, "…then that someone will not be having supper tonight. Or breakfast the following day."

_"Now you've done it…"_

Pantalaimon's murmurous voice carries through the blustery, harvest winds. Asriel imagines Lyra huffing indignantly. It's what she would do while hoisting herself over the roof's edge, dangling down and her boots landing in the soft, dewdrop-slick grass.

Except he doesn't hear this.

As Asriel strolls on, he instead hears a cataclysmic sound like branches snapping apart. A thump.

The oak tree appears tall and standing when he halts, glancing around. Lyra—Lyra remains motionless in a bed of dried, dead leaves faded their summer-green. Reds and yellows and golds scattered around her dark brown hair, Lyra's wrists and cheeks.

Asriel's heart makes a sudden, harsh drop.

He runs across the courtyard, panting, unable to say anything. Her name lodges in the back of Asriel's throat, sticky-hot. One of the Scholars watches in rapt, quiet horror as Asriel throws himself on knees and hands, clutching onto her. Stelmaria bounds after him. He finally gasps for Lyra, cradling the back of her head, struggling through the initial panic.

(She's alright. She always falls and she always complains about it not being her fault and she's always _alright_.)

Warm, wet fluid coats Asriel's palms. A scarlet-colour bloated and brimming full of malice, vice.

For too long, he stares down at it, mouth parting open. "Asriel, on your feet," Stelmaria scolds him gently, nudging him. She collects up the unconscious ermine form of Pantalaimon into her jaws, even more gentler and mindful of her rather sharp fangs.

_Yes_—

_Yes, he must_—

Asriel cradles Lyra once more, swallowing hard, lifting and holding her possessively to his front. The Great Flood has passed some years ago by twist of fate and fortune, but he feels like they're drowning. His lungs aching.

There's one Physician living here. He locates him and another group of Scholars in a building designed for surgical and other forms of medical treatments. They've never seen Lyra in such a frightful state, panicking themselves and ordering Asriel to lay her down on a cot. Asriel positions her to lie on her side without having Lyra collapsing forward, grunting to the Physician.

Stelmaria sets Pantalaimon onto the cot's far-end, nosing him and licking tentatively over his muzzle.

The examination concludes that Lyra must have struck hard ground, or maybe the tree itself as she jumped so _recklessly_. They clean and dress the wound to Lyra's skull, but fuss over the possibility of her not waking due to any swelling of the brain.

"Get out," Asriel mutters, fuming at all of the men. When one of them attempts to speak, he bellows, "_GET. OUT. **NOW**_."

A thunderous, ominous growl. All of the other daemons shiver, hopping and lurching to their companions. Asriel's daemon waits until they've gone before returning to Lyra's cot, nudging her snowy white head to Asriel's elbow and purring.

He massages over Stelmaria's ear inattentively, now glaring down at the child. His eyes burn fiercely, watering.

"You _stupid_ girl," Asriel whispers, forlorn. Lyra's dark blood glares against his pale skin, and to his fur-lined jacket and stiff collar. "I cannot afford to dawdle. I will leave." She breathes shallowly, unresponsive. Asriel's fists clench. "Do you not hear me?" he says, raising his voice despite the tremor present. "I will _leave_ you like this unless you open your eyes and speak! _Speak_, damn you!"

A cry rips out of him, guttural and desperate, and it echoes through Stelmaria mournfully yowling. Asriel claws through his hair, seating himself. "By all that is good and grace, _why_ were you on the roof?" he insists. "I've told you half a _hundred_ times—"

"—s'rry," comes her little, tired answer. Pantalaimon stirs.

His pulse rises quickly to his throat, and Asriel grits his teeth.

Lyra's brown eyes flutter. He hovers his fingertips over her brow, carefully and lightly dragging as if helping her close her eyelids. She doesn't seem to recognize the scent of blood. That, or Lyra's mind is far too hazy to know where she is and what's happened. It's better for Lyra and for him if she _doesn't_ remember.

"Don't," he tells her, leaning over. "Don't, just—_rest_. You must rest."

"Are you going north again?"

There's a glimmer of hope in Lyra's sluggish-slow words.

"I'll bring you with me when I return," Asriel monotones, feeling a slide of warm moisture on his nose. "We'll go north."

"Promise?"

"Sleep, Lyra."

He half-expects her to argue with him, but she goes uncharacteristically quiet, nodding off. Comforted by this, Asriel leans over further, shutting his own eyes and pressing his lips momentarily to Lyra's forehead exposed by the bandage-dressings.

They approve his funding by eve-fall, whether it's sympathy or not for his injured family member.

Asriel packs up, disappearing before Lyra fully recovers.

She will be alright.

_(She always is.)_

**.**

**.**


End file.
